


Lullabies in Parseltongue

by HopeForTheWitch



Series: Lieder [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Angst, Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Parseltongue, Time Travel, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25683538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeForTheWitch/pseuds/HopeForTheWitch
Summary: The Dursleys don't like interacting with Harry.Meanwhile, Dumbledore plays with souls.
Relationships: Background Sirius Black/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Series: Lieder [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1899496
Comments: 30
Kudos: 148





	Lullabies in Parseltongue

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [CynthiaReine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynthiaReine) who was kind enough to beta this. Thank you for your patience and your encouraging words :)

* * *

####  **PART ONE**

* * *

#####  **-1**.

After reapplying the cooling charm and running his hand through his sweaty locks, Marvolo surveyed the dim backroom. There were quite a few boxes he hadn't gotten around to sifting through yet, although they'd undoubtedly hold little treasure. It would have to wait until tomorrow, because he had long passed the phase where he wished to impress his employer and trading in his free hours for pennies was no longer worth it.

With a lazy flick of his wand the sign at the front of the shop blurred and then read _closed_ in Borgin’s awful handwriting. Marvolo had offered to replace it, but both owners had been unconcerned. Their lack of enthusiasm when it came to managing the shop was grating, and Marvolo needed to remind himself at least once a day that this was not his shop, he was just an employee. The urge to just _take over_ was strong.

He sneered at the scroll on the counter—ten years of employment, and all he got was a single galleon discount, valid for three whole weeks. Next to it sat his consolation prize, a silver watch wrapped carefully in a purple handkerchief. It was broken and while it wasn't cursed, Marvolo had yet to figure out how to repair it as none of the regular means worked. It had been the reason Burkes had deemed it trash just the other day.

Marvolo was tempted to leave the scroll behind, but the headache that would bring tomorrow morning wasn't worth it. He closed up behind him, the wards activating upon the key turning in the lock. He sought shelter under the awning for a moment, where it was somehow cooler than it had been inside the shop, as if its interior ate harmless spells and left only the dark ones behind. It wasn't something Marvolo had ever bothered looking into but it wouldn't surprise him if it was true.

There was a commotion near the Leaky Cauldron and the watch in his pocket burned ominously.

* * *

#####  **0**.

“Boy,” Vernon said firmly, a letter held in his meaty fist, “go to your room _._ ”

The Dursleys didn’t like interacting with Harry, preferring to talk at him with harsh whispers and giving him pointed looks, and they _certainly_ didn’t want him to respond with more than just an acknowledgement. Harry remembered feeling lonely, but he hadn’t truly been alone since he was five.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said tonelessly, keeping his eyes trained on Vernon’s chest rather than his face, like Petunia demanded. He hurried back inside after making sure there his feet wouldn’t leave a trail, and then he was back in his little room.

Snake poked its head out between two cans of beans. “ _Is the family leaving?_ ”

“ _For the whole day,_ ” Harry said and he sat back against the cold wall with a content little sigh.

* * *

“Magic,” Harry repeated softly, carefully enunciating.

The word felt odd in his mouth, as if it didn’t belong.

The hairy man cried.

* * *

Contrary to what the big hairy man thought and what he later told the old man, the Dursleys and Harry coexisted just fine as long as all parties obeyed the rules. They were unspoken rules, of course, because the Dursleys didn’t talk with Harry, but even Dudley, slow as he was, knew them well enough. He had all the things normal kids had _and_ they let him keep Snake as long as Snake stayed on the ground floor and only ever came out of Harry's room when everyone was in bed. In turn, none of them were allowed to ever go in his room.

The rules were part of a give-and-take-dynamic, and they worked perfectly fine to keep the peace.

Sadly, Harry didn’t have the words to tell the men that, staring at them silently as he fretted in the big armchair they put him in, his feet dangling over the edge of the seat. A cup of tea sat on the broad armrest. The hairy man had left, and a woman joined them, all prim and proper and a thin smile. _She_ seemed like someone Harry could make deals with, her demeanor reminding him of Petunia, if only he knew the words.

“Does the boy not speak?” the woman asked sharply.

“Yes, ma’am.” Harry frowned at himself, wondering if that was a _yes_ or a _no_ question. Would she hear ‘ _yes, he does speak’_ or ‘ _indeed, he doesn't speak’_? Should he have said he doesn’t _not_ speak? He turned his frown to the woman, a hint of confusion shining through.

Her left eyebrow rose and her lips twitched.

“Sometimes,” he added carefully, because he didn’t want them to get _ideas_. He managed to keep from wincing at his accent.

Her right eyebrow joined her left, but she said nothing, as if she was waiting him out. She and the man already seemed to know the answer to the unasked question that hung in the air.

“Speak little,” Harry told his hands, “but understand all.” Most, anyway. The words sat wrong in his throat and they stuck to his lips and his tongue felt thick in his mouth as he tried to voice the sounds. He’d long learned that hearing the language on a daily basis didn’t mean he magically (ha!) knew how to pronounce the words correctly. The only mercy was being able to pretend he sucked at grammar so that he could get away with short, mangled sentences in his quest to speak as little as possible.

They still knew what he meant anyway, so it wasn’t like it even mattered _._

“Oh dear,” the man said faintly.

“Quite,” the woman sighed.

“ _What a mess_ ,” Snake agreed.

“ _Oh hush_ ,” Harry muttered.

* * *

#####  **2**.

Harry found early on in their friendship that Hermione’s stress was contagious.

It wasn’t until he was preparing for the preliminary tests that he found out what shape stress took for him, because what if they wouldn’t let him attend Hogwarts? Along with it came the realization that he’d never truly been worried before, about _anything_ , because he couldn’t remember ever feeling such panic and dread, pressure suffocating him at times.

Ron was lucky, his stress tic wasn’t harmful or disruptive; it was a waste of time, really, the time he spent postponing even the simplest tasks. It was only during exams that the secondary tic came forth, biting his nails and cuticles bloody, and he took to wearing blue plasters on his fingertips throughout. Those times were rare, however, and even depended on the subject matter.

In the beginning of their friendship, Ron had wanted to learn parseltongue—as a distraction and morbid curiosity, rather than interest, he made sure to add, god forbid Harry misunderstood his intentions. They’d given up once they realized that while Ron might be able to repeat some words after a lot of trial and error and he might even recognize them when he heard them on their own, there was no way for him to understand full sentences. It just wasn't going to happen for anyone, no matter their smarts.

Things became a lot more interesting once they figured out someone could learn to read and write the language. Hermione compared it to other unknown languages, in that someone could technically learn to read different combinations of symbols or letters while never learning how they were pronounced.

Hermione had her own brand of _special_ —Harry liked to pretend his manual wasn’t as thick as Hermione’s, but they all knew better, and if her manual hadn’t been the size it was, she’d probably have been offended.

He learned that he fell somewhere in the middle, happy enough to postpone and pretend it didn’t exist but also strongly identifying with Hermione’s symptoms. Usually he chose to read to pacify his nagging inner voice, which sounded an awful lot like an exasperated Petunia, that he should be doing something productive with his time.

It didn’t help that some of his workload was different from the other two, and that they were each in separate Houses, had bonded in that first train ride over the fact that each of them came with a manual in their own way. Well, Hermione and Harry had bonded over that, Ron was the normal one.

Well, _mostly_.

But no matter who was normal and who wasn’t, he had human friends now.

* * *

#####  **3**.

The door opened and Dumbledore stepped through, his robes for once as washed out grey as their surroundings, his heels clicking on the stone floor. “Tom,” he greeted solemnly, no sign of pretense. “I brought company,” he continued, and then he stepped aside to usher a boy inside the room, “I hope you don’t mind.”

Marvolo nodded despite the fact that he _did_ mind.

He slouched forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on the metal tabletop and letting his wrists drop down with a loud _clang_ that made the boy flinch. The thick platinum bands around his wrists would have gleamed in the artificial light if it hadn’t been for the layer of grime. “I’m in a zoo, now?” he said, unable to keep the exhaustion out of his voice.

“No,” Dumbledore said quietly after he sat down, motioning for the boy to come forward. He patted the chair next to him. “Come sit, Harry.”

Marvolo ran a hand through his unkempt hair, trying to keep it out of his face and grimacing at the knots he encountered.

“You look…” Dumbledore trailed off, then sighed.

“Like shit?” he supplied helpfully. “Yes, that tends to happen here.”

“You responded favourably to my presence last time,” the old man said, giving him a pointed look.

Marvolo made a low sound of disagreement, mostly because he couldn’t recall. “Favourably,” he repeated tonelessly, rubbing his wrists together as he tensed up. His mind felt clouded, and if he had the energy for it, he would’ve been angry, but all he felt was bone deep exhaustion. “Favourably,” he said again.

Dumbledore looked at the boy. “Go on, my boy.”

Marvolo sneered at the endearment. Said boy was looking highly uncomfortable, the frightened expression he came in with still on display. _Good_ , he should be afraid; Azkaban was hardly a place for a child to visit, he looked barely older than eight.

The boy visibly gathered courage. “ _He said when you first came here that your ring made you feel better_ ,” he finally said, voice barely audible, “ _but it’s a secret, right? And they won’t let us in with anything so he thought maybe I could help instead.”_

Marvolo took a deep breath, going through several emotions until anger finally won out. He shot Dumbledore a seething glare. “Fuck you,” he said passionately, _tiredly_ , and neither adult looked shocked at that. If anything, his old teacher seemed to have expected it, although perhaps not worded that way. Then it fully sunk in that the boy hadn’t spoken English, and Marvolo took another deep breath. He held it for longer than he probably should have in his current condition, but the boy—“ _You’re a parselmouth_ ,” he said unnecessarily.

The boy nodded but kept quiet.

“Tom,” Dumbledore said, the warning clear in his voice. He leaned back in the chair. “I thought perhaps some familiarity would be appreciated.”

“Because the biggest problem I have is _homesickness_ ,” Marvolo muttered, mind racing and suddenly remembering that there hadn’t even been introductions. Potter, he concluded, taking longer to arrive there through the haze than he wished but surprised that he was able to get there at all. “It does.” He swallowed. “Help, that is.”

“Good.”

* * *

(It helped until it didn’t.)

(It helped until he was desperate to sink back into the deep water as they _took_ from him.)

* * *

Time slowed in the face of pain.

Marvolo let himself be ragged through the dim halls, let himself get shoved into the hard chair. The wristbands were heavy, and his smile was bloody when the guards shackled him down, a bruise still visible on his left cheek.

He should have expected it, yet he couldn’t keep the surprise off his face when Dumbledore came in and seated himself across the table, because once more he’d taken _the boy_ with him to this godforsaken place.

“Hello, Tom.”

Marvolo said nothing, and so they sat for fifteen hours in silence.

* * *

(“You have fifteen minutes,” the empty faces sneered at him. “Don’t get ideas.”)

(Marvolo would have loved to get _ideas_ , but he was tired and he wanted to sleep.)

* * *

“Hello, Tom,” Dumbledore said.

He didn’t look up.

“ _Hello_ ,” the boy hissed after a moment of hesitation. “ _You’re bleeding, sir._ ”

“ _Am I?_ ” Marvolo murmured finally, looking up at him through a greasy fringe. He seemed a little older now, more filled out, or perhaps it was the clothes. How long had it been? He licked his lips, frowning at the coppery taste. “ _Yes, I suppose I am._ ”

“ _Does it hurt?_ ” the boy asked.

Marvolo lowered his gaze again. “No,” he told his wristbands.

* * *

(One day, he knew, there would be nothing left of him.)

* * *

Marvolo grimaced as he turned to his side on the cot at the sound of approaching footsteps. He didn’t need to see to know it was Dumbledore, the _click-_ splash _-click_ of his boots on the damp ground familiar in a way he detested. He stopped in the middle of the puddle of mud in front of Marvolo’s cell, a brief look of surprise the only indication that he noticed the way his left boot sunk slightly.

Idly, Marvolo wondered what time it was, the only light coming from the vintage lanterns in the hallways, but then, _everything_ about Azkaban was vintage. The prison reeked of stagnation, much like the rest of Wixen Britain and Northern Europe. Worse was the thought that he was punished for a revolution he hadn’t even started yet, but he had long since lost the rage that had been consuming him when he was first thrown into his cell.

“Happy birthday, Tom,” Dumbledore said, raising his voice to be heard over the incoherent shouting of the neighbours.

Marvolo laughed.

Then he threw up.

* * *

(He used to dream of power, Wixen Britain at his feet and him their rightful king. He would succeed where Grindelwald had failed, and once his position was secure, he’d show them he was a just ruler, that they had made the right choice in following him; they would see that he was honorable and merciful—outside of war.)

(But the Ministry didn’t believe in mercy.)

(Now his dreams were full of stained metal.)

* * *

Someone must have complained, because they forced the contents of two potion vials down his throat with a delighted laugh as he struggled in their hold. He wiped his mouth afterwards, eyes lingering on the trail it left on the back of his hand, the rest of it salty and bitter on the back of his tongue.

“Tell me about him,” Marvolo said hoarsely when the door opened, staring momentarily at a row of glowing half moons on Dumbledore’s purple sleeve as he came in. He twisted his hands together and fought the urge to rub his wrist. He shifted with a cut off sound.

“Hello, Tom,” Dumbledore greeted instead.

“Tell me,” he insisted.

Dumbledore was quiet, as if he was considering it but still leaning towards no.

That wouldn’t do. Marvolo had a right to know, and if he had to believe someone’s truth, well, the Ministry hadn’t had the nerve to remind him of his birthday, had they? It left Dumbledore as the only other option, _the boy_ absent, although he doubted the child would know. “I’m old, after all, you made sure to tell me,” he tried next, still horrified by that, “I can handle it.”

It got him a chuckle. “You’re hardly old.”

“I’m thirty now.” He grimaced.

Dumbledore looked stricken. “Thirty-two,” he said softly. “You’re thirty-two, Tom.”

“Oh.”

* * *

(They were faceless and nameless, they were Unspeakables, they were tools wielded by the Ministry to pry him open and coax out secrets, one at a time.)

* * *

_The boy_ looked softer now, a little rounder than Marvolo could remember yet still sharp around the edges, still so impossibly young, still looking at Dumbledore for permission to speak. “ _I’m a third year now_ ,” he said, sounding a little proud of himself, as if there was anything even remotely significant about that.

Marvolo said nothing, only vaguely remembering something about tests and scores.

Once more the boy glanced at Dumbledore before looking back at him. “ _I’m in Slytherin_ ,” he continued shyly.

Marvolo made a noise of approval in the back of his throat.

“ _Professor Albus—_ ”

He couldn’t help a sharp little exhale at that.

“— _says I should practice my English more but I don’t like it.”_

“Does the boy not speak English?” Marvolo heard himself ask despite the resolution not to speak a single word this time around.

“ _I understand most of it,”_ Potter answered, crossing his arms in front of his chest with a mulish expression, more animated than Marvolo ever remembered seeing him, albeit a little grumpy. “ _I just don’t like it,_ ” he groused. “ _The grammar is weird and they have stupid words._ ”

“Yes, well,” Marvolo managed after a cough, “there’s no parselmouth schools that I’m aware of.” He cleared his throat again, then rubbed his cheek against his shoulder to get a stray lock of hair out of his face. “You’ve no choice if you wish to get anywhere in life.”

The boy looked _betrayed_.

Dumbledore looked _proud_.

Marvolo ignored the way his hair stuck to his jaw and sneered at them both.

* * *

(Sometimes he sat in stubborn silence as he glared at the wall behind the headmaster, unwilling to play along and refusing to acknowledge what might have been hallucinations, for all he knew. Azkaban had no place for dignity and pride, but that didn’t mean he had to make it easy on them.)

(But he would listen as the boy child spoke.)

(But he would not remember.)

* * *

####  **PART TWO**

* * *

#####  **4**.

Harry had another quarter hour to kill before Sirius would arrive. Professor Dumbledore was bent over some papers on his desk, important looking ones, so Harry didn’t feel awkward about reaching into his bag and taking out a folder of near-blank sheets from last year’s exam period, some of them still bound together. He figured he might as well use the time to get some writing exercises in while he tried to calm his nerves, and fifteen minutes was just long enough to get through two of the easier exercises.

The considerable stack of sheets had a mis-match of different colours and sizes, some came with lines and some were without. Harry and Ron hadn’t bothered getting their own notebooks after their first semester—Hermione tore out sheets from her notebooks when she thought her handwriting wasn’t similar enough to the rest of her notes, or when she’d made a spelling error, or when it had a crinkle or a spot of ink. Sometimes she tore it out incorrectly, whatever the correct way was supposed to be, and she’d get angry and tear out the other side as well. Sometimes the notebook clearly showed it was missing pages, so it had to go. Sometimes—well, Harry and Ron had plenty of paper between the two of them.

Harry didn’t like writing on pages that already had someone else’s writing on them, although he didn’t mind stains, so he switched those with Ron, who didn’t care one whit and was just grateful for the free paper.

The Floo flared pale yellow halfway down his first page of carefully scribbled letters and a disembodied voice said in crisp English, “Sirius Black.” Harry glanced at the clock while the headmaster gave the okay, then watched Sirius step out of the green flames with the grace of someone who grew up with it.

Sirius looked resigned rather than frustrated. “I don’t know why I agreed to this,” he said, “I would like it formally known—”

“Yes, yes, aware,” Harry interrupted rudely, if only because Sirius had been a broken record for the past few months.

His guardian gave him a long stare, then his expression cleared. “Who is aware?” he asked lightly, “I have no idea who you’re talking about. Me? Albus? You? Maybe even your friends?”

“Context,” Harry only said, and then under his breath, “language so _stupid_.” There were just so many extra words that he had to learn that seemed unnecessary. Hermione said his broken sentences made sense once she started learning how to read parselscript, something to do with grammar that Harry didn’t care about.

Sirius sighed and gestured to Harry’s bag. “Are you taking that with you?”

“Yes.” Harry took the bag resting against the headmaster’s desk, and not long after they were walking towards the gates of the near empty castle; only a few students and teachers remained for the holidays. It had been convenient to meet up with Professor Dumbledore, and so Harry had gone to Hogwarts while Sirius returned for the paperwork they’d both forgotten about.

The portkey dropped them on a shore, close to one of the larger boats that ferried visitors, unlike the leaking rafts that were meant for prisoners.

Sirius paled upon seeing Azkaban in the distance, and for a second he was just staring at the prison. His expression crumbled and his breathing hitched, and he said hoarsely, “I just remembered we haven’t enough food at home.”

Harry traded his backpack for the one Sirius had carried. “Hermione wanted cherry pie,” he said, grabbing one of Sirius’ trembling hands and squeezing it. Harry thought he could somewhat understand his godfather’s hesitation of coming closer, when it’d been only two years since his own release. In hindsight, taking Sirius back here had probably _not_ been a good idea.

“She’s coming?” Sirius’ voice raised an octave, and he cleared his throat.

“No,” Harry grinned, “Hermione just want cherry pie from Hogsmeade bakery. I owl to her.”

It spoke volumes that Sirius didn’t seize the chance to comment on his grammar. Instead, he just nodded lightly. “Okay. Yes, okay, I can do that.” He left without so much as a goodbye, too shaken to think properly from the looks of it.

* * *

“We sedated him for transport, sir,” one of two guards standing in front of them explained with the clear expectation that it would be received with gratitude.

Instead, the headmaster straightened up fully and a dark expression passed over his face before it cleared and then he looked disappointed. “Then wake him up,” he said, the words spoken softly yet even Harry could discern the threat in them.

The guards shared an uncomfortable look between each other. “That might take some time, sir,” the second guard said hesitantly.

The old man spread his arms with a smile. “That’s quite alright, we have nowhere to be.”

“He’s dangerous,” the second guard insisted.

Harry had to walk away. He exited the room with stiff movements and stepped into the hall, where he started hissing angrily, safe in the knowledge that nobody would understand his venting. Professor Dumbledore and Sirius and Hermione had said multiple times over the past two years that if they wanted anything to be done, they needed to show goodwill.

Yelling at the guards or throwing a tantrum?

 _Not_ showing goodwill, even if it felt really good at the time.

He'd apologized profusely over the course of the next few visits, and they’d easily forgiven the Boy-Who-Lived, went so far as to come up with an excuse for him, too—it must’ve been the Dementors, that poor boy. Harry’d had a few choice words for them in return, but had learned his lesson and utilized the wonders of parseltongue.

They weren’t at the prison proper, so the Dementors weren't doing a number on him, although Harry could easily feel their presence in the distance. The run-down office building was badly insulated, and even during the summer it stayed cold. Warming charms didn't hold long in the presence of Dementors, and it seemed nobody bothered recasting them, not even for visitors.

When the two guards left, Harry slunk back into the waiting room, where Professor Dumbledore had transfigured a sofa out of a matchstick. They sat in silence as they waited, Harry hugging the bag in his lap for comfort while Dumbledore sat still as a statue.

* * *

They'd given him a Christmas present, because of course they had. Mindful of Professor Dumbledore, three different guards came and they deposited him on the floor. “All yours,” one of them said with a sneer and the three stepped away as Dumbledore stood then knelt next to the heap of dirty rags and matted hair.

“Hello, Tom,” Dumbledore said.

Harry removed a thick cloak out of the bag and handed it over wordlessly. The door fell shut with a loud click and then a softer _whrrr_ from the locking mechanism. He unwrapped a bar of chocolate and was about to hand it over, but the headmaster shook his head.

Right.

Harry winced in sympathy, pressing the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth in response.

* * *

#####  **5**.

Sirius remembered all too well what it was like to wake up and suddenly find oneself outside of Azkaban in relatively good physical condition, supposedly declared innocent because Dumbledore had gone on a justice spree—it had sparked a four month long psychotic episode. It hadn't been the last, but it had been the worst one and definitely the longest. The last thing they needed was a psychotic baby Dark Lord on their hands after nursing him back to health. It had taken _years_ of persuasion to pry him out of the Ministry's hands in the first place.

Poppy and one of Albus' healer friends sat with him while they waited. Sirius recognized him vaguely, he must've done work for the Order back in the day, but the atmosphere was tense and the other man must've assumed Sirius would know who he was, because there had not been introductions. After sitting with them for over half an hour, he thought it was more than a little awkward to be asking his name now.

Sirius checked and rechecked the entire house, to make sure everything was baby Dark Lord proofed. Going off of experience, they did everything they hadn't done when Sirius was released, such as mess with locks and doors and wards. In this case, however, it was for _their_ protection rather than for Riddle's.

How the fuck had they managed to rope him into this?

His protests had fallen on deaf ears, because once Albus made a decision, he stuck to it fiercely to the point of tunnel-vision. No wonder he and Harry got along so well, obsession-prone menaces, the both of them. Because _of course_ Harry would pick up on The Plan and then he threw himself right in the middle of it, set on getting that baby Dark Lord of his released.

It wasn't that Sirius didn't agree, it was just that he wasn't sure whether it was a sound plan to turn Grimmauld Place into a make-shift psych ward.

A loud knocking brought him out of his musings, and within seconds he was at the front door. “Fuck,” he muttered as he stepped aside to let Albus through, curling his arm around Harry's shoulders and kicking the door closed behind them. The boy was shaking, equal parts horrified and angry—they'd given Riddle a farewell gift, evidently.

Sirius took him down into the kitchen, sat him at the island and put a kettle on the stove, tapping his fingers impatiently on the counter. When it was done, he stirred a teaspoon of calming draught in Harry's cup. “He’ll be fine, sweetheart,” he said.

“Physical maybe,” Harry said. “Potion?” He took a careful sip.

“A bit of calming draught, yes.”

Harry hissed something, and not for the first time Sirius wished he could at least understand. The fourteen year old was improving every day, but it was during the emotionally charged moments, and there were more of those than there should be, that he would revert back to parseltongue.

* * *

Sometimes Sirius woke up believing it was all a trick, that these were all strangers wearing familiar faces. One time he woke up with the conviction he was dead, and this was his personal hell and that he had to atone for all his wrongdoings if he wanted to go to heaven, that he had to _prove_ himself.

He fell asleep wondering how he could prove himself, whether he should jump or hang or cut, and when he woke up again, he laughed at his own stupidity.

He wasn't even religious.

* * *

#####  **6**.

Harry bit his lip, staring up at the stairs. He wasn’t supposed to go upstairs, they said he was resting, but ever since Snake died he hadn’t had anyone else to talk to. Feeling only a little guilty he ghosted up the stairs, feet as quiet as they used to be back at the Dursleys. He shivered as he passed through the wards. Healer Yukov gave him a disapproving stare when he entered the hallway. “Don’t wake him,” he said sternly.

Harry wanted to snort. If he was able to wake Marvolo, meaning they hadn't just put him under, he was certain that Marvolo most likely _was_ awake and Yukov was an idiot if he thought otherwise. He didn't give voice to these thoughts, however, just walking past the man and entering the bedroom Sirius had prepared for their guest of honour.

He closed the door, mostly to give them some privacy. It wouldn't keep Sirius or Dumbledore out, but at least Yukov wouldn't be butting in. As soon as the door clicked closed, Marvolo sat up, his expression blank. Harry realized that there was a certain tension missing in his face—pain, it must've been the pain.

“ _Did they explain?_ ” Harry asked, approaching bed slowly. He wasn't going to bother asking the man how he was doing, not yet at least.

“ _Some_ ,” Marvolo said. “ _I assume Dumbledore wished to play hero one more time._ ”

“ _I helped too!_ ” Harry couldn't help but grin, knowing he should try to put a positive spin on things, remembering the way Sirius could spiral at times. “ _I picked out the colours, do you like it?_ ” He patted the sheets, a few shades darker than Slytherin’s colours. His eyes narrowed as he took in Marvolo's appearance, and his smile melted off his face. “ _Did they only heal you?_ ” he asked incredulously. “ _Nothing else? Would you like a shower?_ ” he continued, already standing up. “ _Or a bath? There's a bathroom right there._ ” He pointed at the door in between two dressers.

“ _Slow down,_ ” Marvolo said, although his lip curled a little in what Harry recognized as dark amusement.

Harry was relieved to spot the repaired teeth. It wasn’t an appealing sight, discoloured and uneven because healers didn’t care about aesthetics, but at least it didn’t make Harry's own mouth throb in sympathy anymore.

He wondered how long it would take before reality set in. Marvolo seemed out of it, strangely passive, as if he was merely observing and letting himself get dragged through the motions. Did he think he was dreaming, maybe even hallucinating? There was a lightness around him that Harry didn’t quite trust, but it seemed stable for now, the bubble unlikely to pop anytime soon.

Harry would readily admit he felt under-prepared now that they’d gotten Marvolo released. The only one who seemed to know what he was doing was Dumbledore, and he was over at the Ministry smoothing the ruffled feathers of those in the know.

Even though the man was still physically weak, he made it to the bath just fine. The tub filled slowly with water, nothing too hot, but when Harry twisted the knob to turn on the shower, Marvolo’s fingers twitched at his side.

Harry paused, wondering what to do.

“It’s fine,” Marvolo said roughly, switching to English suddenly, and he stepped under the spray.

“ _You should probably sit,_ ” he murmured, eyeing the man’s wobbly legs with some trepidation.

Marvolo grunted, distracted by the first proper shower he had in five years—his face was _doing things._

Harry averted his eyes with a blush.

* * *

####  **PART THREE**

* * *

#####  **7**.

“What’s he like?” Hermione whispered as they sat in the library. She pushed her book towards him and took another one for herself from the pile on the table. Ron and Neville sat across from them, the latter peering up curiously through his fringe.

Harry gave her an odd look. “Nice?”

Ron snorted. “Sure.”

“Not nice, but...” Harry shrugged.

“Not bad?” Neville suggested with a grin. His grin slowly disappeared, and then he sighed. “Gran said he got what he deserved,” he said quietly. “Said that Dumbledore’s gone mad, as if house arrest is gonna stop him.”

Harry frowned, but Hermione cut him off before he could say something scathing about old ladies. “What do _you_ think?” she asked.

“He’s still a murderer,” Neville said firmly.

Harry glared at the other boy. “Not punishment enough?” he snapped.

“How do I know that?” Neville returned. “Nobody knows, nobody talks about it, they only ever say Dumbledore’s barmy and the Ministry shouldn’t have released him.”

Ron looked a little green. “It was really bad, Nev,” he said quietly. “How can we be the good guys if that’s okay?”

“If _what_ was okay, though? I don’t _know_.”

Harry wondered if they should tell him. Would that invade Marvolo’s privacy? Would he care that some no-name student, to him at least, would know about his fate at the hands of the Ministry? They’d been close-lipped about the entire affair, spinning it in their favour when it came out, much like Neville suggested; Dumbledore finally lost it and Harry was a lost little lamb who was lashing out because he missed his parents so much.

Or whatever it was that Skeeter had cooked up, Harry stopped keeping track in the Summer before his fifth year. It’d been a year now since Marvolo was released, but her articles hadn’t stopped from what Harry could tell. Sometimes Hermione was kind enough to let him know what was being said, because according to her, he should really pay more attention to these things.

But Harry had other things to worry about.

With their OWLs around the corner and teachers burying Harry in work, he suddenly had a lot of negative things to say about his family. After all, it was _their_ fault his workload was crazy, because he was playing catch-up still. Hermione’s load was roughly the same amount, but she wanted it that way; Harry hadn’t a choice.

Umbridge was going to ruin his grades, he just knew it.

“Potter,” a voice behind them said coldly.

Harry just about stopped himself from grimacing at his house mate. “Hello, Malfoy,” he said idly after turning around to face the other boy, but Malfoy was already moving, taking a seat at the other end of the table.

“Father had some interesting things to say,” Malfoy commented.

Ron looked ready to say something, but Neville stomped his foot. “Oh?” Harry inquired.

“Yes, about your little pet prisoner.”

Harry’s lips twitched. “Which one?” 

Malfoy grinned, whereas Hermione made a scandalized sound. “The one you acquired recently,” his fellow Slytherin continued.

“It’s a year, that’s not recently,” Harry protested.

Malfoy shrugged. “More recent than the other one.”

“Your cousin is doing great,” Harry said cheerfully.

“I’m sure,” Malfoy muttered, pride still smarting after Sirius’ rejection when Harry introduced them in third year, as the only tolerable Slytherin he’d found at Hogwarts. Sirius had only been released a year at the time, and was still firmly on the no-good-came-from-Slytherin train.

“He apologized,” Harry said.

“Yes,” Malfoy agreed, “and as I was saying, my father said—”

“Oh, _Merlin_.”

“—that the M—what _now_?” 

“Nevermind,” Harry said, “I thought you were going to say something else.”

Malfoy scrunched up his nose, but whether that was because of the accent or the words themselves, Harry didn’t know. “What was it?”

“Doesn’t matter.” His friends looked curious, and he knew exactly why that was—he spoke in English two ways. Option one, fast but chopped up and _heavily_ accented, which was what he used on his friends and family, because option two took effort, and between Harry and Ron, they’d made being lazy a competitive sport. Option two being, slow but crisp and correct, just the way his pronunciation tutor liked it.

“Alright,” Malfoy agreed with a sigh. “As I was saying, _I heard_ —”

Harry smirked.

“—that the Minister is insisting on borrowing him from time to time.”

“ _What, that piece of—no absolutely not._ ” He cleared his throat, because that helped switching back to a human tongue sometimes. It certainly did the trick now. “That’s nice of him,” he said, and he made it sound viscous somehow, emulating Snake, who died shortly after Harry’s twelfth birthday. It’d been an accident, supposedly, but Harry didn’t truly believe in those. Sadly he never was able to learn what truly happened.

Malfoy hummed. “I thought so too,” he said and casually opened his bag to grab a textbook, Charms from the looks of it, as if that was something he did every day, as if he hung out with a Weasley and a muggleborn on a daily basis. Neville had always been on a cordial basis with the other boy.

Ron called it _politics_ , Harry called it _posturing_ , Hermione called it _ridiculous_. Then she’d checked a thesaurus, just to be sure, and among the listed synonyms decided that while it didn’t fit entirely, the word _preposterous_ would do instead.

“I don’t recognize that one,” Malfoy said thoughtfully, looking at Hermione’s choice of reading.

The only girl amid his friends blushed. “It’s er… it’s Harry’s,” she said awkwardly. “Here, Harry, you can have it back.” She patted his shoulder as she shoved her magazine towards him, making Ron exhale loudly with amusement when they saw what it was.

“Thanks, Her-my-one,” he said sharply, but he put it between his books anyway.

“Will you please let that go?” Hermione complained. 

Never, because Krum butchering her name made Harry feel a bit better about his own efforts back in the day, and she’d never humoured Harry. In fact, she’d made him sit with her for half an hour repeating only her name until finally he got it.

“You give bloody Cosmo,” he whispered back heatedly, “in front of _Malfoy_ , and you said is mine.”

“Why do you—oh, _Harry_.”

She was wrong, but it was easier to let her have her epiphanies; Harry knew what battles to pick, and this wasn’t one of them.

* * *

#####  **8**.

Ron knew that despite the colours of his tie, he was a Slytherin at heart. The hat had argued with him for nearly five minutes, but the last thing he wanted was standing out for the wrong reasons. He wasn’t Hufflepuff material, let alone Ravenclaw, so he’d followed his brothers like a good little sheep into Gryffindor. That wasn’t to say he didn’t like it there, because he did. Dean, Seamus and Ron had quickly forged friendships that he was sure were going to last a long time past Hogwarts.

“Charliepercefred—Ron!” 

He didn’t sigh, but it was a close thing as his mother hugged him. “Yeah?”

“Have you not heard a single word I said, young man?” she asked. She laughed at herself, a little flustered and ruining the image of a stern mother. “I’m sorry, I promise I’ll be better with names.”

Ron sincerely doubted that but let it go. She’d promised too often for him to get his hopes up, and she didn’t do it on purpose. “I’ll be fine, mum,” he said instead. “Sirius will be there too.”

His mother’s smile dimmed. “That’s not reassuring me, dear,” she said.

“Professor Dumbledore will be there too for a little bit?” he tried next, because it was true, although _a little bit_ was stretching it. His mother didn’t need to know that.

“That, on the other hand.” His mother patted his head, and he ducked away from her. “Alright, alright, be good.” She grabbed his cheeks and pulled his head closer so she could plant a kiss on his forehead. “Go, before I change my mind.”

He grinned and waved and then he was gone.

* * *

Grimmauld Place gave him the creeps, but he supposed that was the reaction the Blacks must have been going for when they first bought the townhouse. Sirius lived in a different house and definitely not in London, but it must’ve been a habit to create a portkey that led to Grimmauld instead of his own place; it was the public Black house, the only one on file. All the richer families had similar systems. Visitors would go to the public place and from there be led to their real destination. He didn’t think Sirius even thought about doing it differently, it was what he’d grown up with.

If anything, he thought that if they had the money for it, the Weasleys would easily have adopted that particular custom. For all that they denounced many Wixen customs, this one was purely about showing off and well, his mum did have Black blood in her veins. 

Just because she married poor didn’t mean she hadn’t grown up with certain standards that she missed, Ron was sure. He himself tried not to get lost in what-if’s, but it was easy to dream of the riches they _could_ have had but didn’t.

Sirius was waiting for him in the entrance hall. There was a dark and brooding expression on his face, but it disappeared as soon as he spotted Ron, and Ron made a mental note to tell Harry about it later. “There you are, just on time!” he exclaimed cheerfully.

Ron didn’t grimace but it was close. Did the man truly think he was fooling anyone? Surely Harry saw straight through him? What about his mind healer? Or had he stopped attending those sessions, proclaiming himself better? Did he still take his potions or was there going to be a relapse? That would devastate Harry, and then Ron and Hermione had to pick up the pieces again, and Hermione was pretty useless in that department because she had her own struggles. Ron was exhausted trying to juggle everyone’s mental health. 

It was hard sometimes being the _sane_ friend. 

He didn’t think of himself that way, but it was what Harry would always tell him and Hermione never let on that she thought differently, never corrected him. Ron found that it left a bad taste in his mouth because it meant his friends had expectations of him and he couldn’t disappoint them, they had enough on their plates. It was a good thing he had Dean, honestly, because even Seamus was slowly getting off track now that he’d perfected brewing those sobering potions, and Neville was Hermione’s friend, not his.

Another portkey brought them to their destination, and they landed on the front lawn of an average sized house. It seemed to be located in the midst of a large copse of trees. “Nice,” he said appreciatively, and Sirius looked proud. “Is this Black property or just yours?”

“Just mine,” Sirius said with a twitch of his lips.

“Cool,” Ron murmured, following him onto the porch and inside the house. As expected, it was bigger inside than the outside let on, but it wasn’t as extravagantly decorated as he thought it’d be. “It’s very bright,” he commented as he took off his shoes, “I like it.”

“It helps, you know?” Sirius said. He dropped his own shoes, a pair of worn boots, carelessly on the hardwood floor. He shoved them underneath the radiator with a swift kick.

Ron didn’t know personally but he’d heard enough that he didn’t need to ask for clarification either.

“But that’s not the reason,” the man chuckled. “I’ve had this since _before_ ,” he added, conspiringly leaning closer to whisper, “they can’t seize what they don’t know about, can they?”

“They can try,” Ron said lightly.

Sirius shrugged.

It was interesting how much meaning could be packed into a single word— _before_. He wondered what it was like to have a Before and an After like that, to have your life on pause while everyone else moved on without you, to wake up from a nightmare and realize 10 years passed without your notice. He hoped he’d never have to find out and face the question whether he’d be strong enough for it.

“So where’s er…”

“Marvolo?”

Ron nodded. “Right, yeah, him.”

“Out with Harry doing sn—” Sirius cut himself off. “Stuff.”

He grinned. “Snake stuff?”

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“You were going to say _snake stuff_ , mate, don’t deny.”

Sirius laughed. It was a good sound.

* * *

#####  **9**.

Azkaban changed a man inside and out. For a while, Marvolo thought his appearance matched what he thought often about himself. As the weeks turned into months and the months turned into a year, that began to change, until he once more was walking around feeling like an imposter. Minister of Magic before his forties, they’d predicted, and Marvolo had smiled politely and chuckled and waved it off in an approximation of humbleness.

The nineteen-fifty political climate was as hostile towards mudbloods as the forties had been, so no, there was no Tom Riddle, Ministry _anything_. In hindsight, pride of youth had struck and he should’ve just taken the hand that was offered instead of sneering at it in contempt and _he could do it himself, thank you_. 

How was he to know he’d be stuck as a store clerk for the rest of his miserable life?

He didn’t think suffering at the hands of the Ministry for years was worth getting unstuck from said life, however—nothing was worth waking up in a cold sweat and reaching up with shaking hands to trace the ghost of scars near his eyes and on his cheeks and running down his neck and torso. There were still tremors running down his limbs in the evenings.

Harry sat across him in the otherwise empty pub, looking at the glass of wine in Marvolo’s hand with ill-hidden curiosity. Would he rather it’d be a beer, like Sirius with his specialty beers at all times of the day? “ _Here, Marv, try this one_ ,” was a common theme in their household. Despite all the complaining he did, Marvolo always took the offer, he always gave in.

“ _Do you want to try?_ ” Marvolo asked with a raised eyebrow.

Harry instantly perked up. “ _Yes, please._ ” 

Well, Marvolo never claimed to be a model citizen. If anything, Azkaban had made him less inclined to follow silly rules like underage laws. “ _Don’t tell Sirius,_ ” he cautioned.

“ _Of course not,_ ” Harry huffed.

* * *

By the time they returned home, there was a happy flush across Harry’s cheeks. There was no hiding that from Sirius; apparently he was known as _that boring Slytherin who doesn’t do anything exciting_ because he’d been so focused on other things—those things being Marvolo’s imprisonment and his language classes because they’d expel him if he failed to keep up with those—that partying just wasn’t part of his Hogwarts curriculum. Now that he did have extra time on his hands, the invitations had long since stopped.

Pitiful little snake, Marvolo already knew he was going to have a lot of fun with that.

* * *

“You gave him alcohol?” Sirius hissed angrily.

Marvolo nodded wordlessly.

“What if I wanted to be the one to give him his first drink? I’m his godfather, damnit.”

Well then. Marvolo chuckled. “I didn’t think you’d approve.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “He’s fifteen, he won’t die from it.” He seemed to finally hear himself and he slapped his forehead. “No, I’m a responsible adult, what am I thinking.”

“You’re thinking you missed most of his life, Sirius. Don’t worry, it’s only natural to want to be there when he experiences new things,” he said smoothly. 

Sirius was nodding vehemently. “Yeah, exactly!”

A wicked grin. “He has only so many firsts left, after all.”

“Yes, exa—what? _No_ , stop.”

* * *

His first Christmas spent with people he somewhat tolerated since he came here, and it was starting off brilliantly. The only one left to arrive was the mudblood girl. Both she and the Weasley boy were only allowed on the property by their parents because they thought Marvolo was spending Christmas with Dumbledore.

And he was.

They just forgot to mention that Dumbledore was spending it with _them_.

It was admirable how Weasley’s curiosity overtook his fear of meeting _Voldemort_. It had been a bit insulting, to be honest, because when they finally met, Weasley had taken one look at him and said, “Oh, I get it now,” as if he could discern Marvolo wasn’t a threat just from his appearance.

Marvolo had gotten so angry he’d felt his entire body grow warm with it, but Sirius sharply asked if he was going to sulk, and Marvolo _didn’t sulk_ , so he reigned in his temper. “Anyway, he meant the wristbands,” Sirius had whispered.

That… made sense. 

* * *

#####  **10**.

Hermione nervously patted down her skirt, feeling a lot overdressed but choosing what her daughter wore made her mother feel better about her spending Christmas somewhere else. She couldn’t believe it was happening, she was going to meet Voldemort. How odd to think that? Why wasn’t she running for the hills? Harry was incredibly biased, practically glowing whenever he spoke of the man. If she hadn’t disliked the word so much, she’d have said Harry was _gushing_. 

She bent down to pet Crookhanks, carefully ignoring the thought of, _I wonder what it feels like to break his neck_ , and the flash of her hands buried in his fur. She patted her pocket to make sure she had her medication and only then did she pat her other pocket to make sure she had her wand. She patted that pocket twice, ignoring the urge to check her first pocket again, and she stepped into her shoes.

“Ready, darling?” her mother asked.

Hermione nodded with a bright smile. She was excited to see Sirius again, and she was going to see Professor Dumbledore outside of school, how strange was that? She’d never met a teacher outside school, well, except for when her fifth grade teacher came for a home visit, that had been odd. Hermione hated him, so she’d avoided the seat he’d taken for years.

Her mother gave her a kiss on her cheek, and it felt a little wet, and she wondered if—no, stop.

Hermione twitched away violently, grimacing at herself. “Sorry,” she said immediately but her mother knew her well enough not to be hurt by such displays anymore, nevermind that she didn’t know what went on in Hermione’s head. She’d probably thought Hermione was crazy and disgusting, but it wasn’t like she could help it. She didn’t think it on purpose, it just _happened_.

Bad enough her mum knew that Hermione wondered about pulling teeth with tweezers and yanking out hair with chunks of flesh attached and snapping wrists and stabbing cats. 

Hermione fidgeted, making small talk with her mother until the portkey went off, and then she was in Grimmauld Place. She shuddered at her surroundings, but Sirius was there to greet her and then they were off to his real place in Greenfield. She stumbled a bit, still not used to Wixen travel methods, but he held her steady, and she accidentally looked at his lips and had to ignore the flashing images in her head of things that she didn’t want to think about.

She looked away, checking out the house, and Sirius didn’t seem to have noticed.

* * *

Hermione got the attic all to herself. It wasn’t originally a bedroom, but they’d put a bed there anyway. There was only a relatively small area where she could stand, as the roof was sloped low, but it was high enough that she wouldn’t hit her head against one of the wooden beams running along the width of the ceiling. They reminded her a bit of the look of a ship, or maybe a farm. 

Sirius slept in the bedroom on the ground floor, opposite the kitchen. Harry, Marvolo and Ron had rooms on the first floor. Sirius claimed it was so that he could hear if Marvolo got up to anything, but Harry had once _jokingly_ said it was so he didn’t have to walk up the stairs at night.

All the gifts sat under a fat tree stuck in the corner of the room, much too large for the living room but nobody cared. Its branches swept the floor, weighed down by baubles and trinkets and blinking multi-coloured lights. The tree blocked an entire corner of the dining table, which was just as well as there were only six of them but eight chairs.

Most of the afternoon was spent outdoors, the three of them exploring the village and its surroundings on rusty bikes. Why walk when there were bicycles in the shed, Harry had reasoned. Hermione’d given him the stink-eye, seeing that laziness strike again, especially when Ron was quick to agree to their trip.

“There’s almost nothing here,” Ron said, a little disappointed, once they thoroughly checked out all the roads and paths of the village.

“That’s point,” Harry said with a nod. “Found nice pub, though.”

Ron snorted. “I can’t imagine him on a bike.”

“Oh, we weren’t,” Harry smiled. “He drove.”

“Drove?” Hermione questioned, intrigued.

“Well.” Harry cleared his throat, unable to stop the grin. “He didn’t want to, says cars are too fast now. I asked if he’d rather go on a horse.”

Hermione laughed too loud at that, but she didn’t care. “Did he get mad?”

Harry shrugged. “Sirius made Cinderella joke, didn’t know he knew the film.”

“Oh, right, that came out in the fifties, I think,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Still, why would he know it? Has he seen it?”

“I think so,” Harry said, smirking a little at the thought.

Ron looked horrified. “Maybe he had a family.” 

Hermione felt her breath catch in her throat at the thought. 

Ron cleared his throat. “It’s a different Voldemort, right? So maybe this one—what if he had a family?” he whispered. He sucked on the tip of his ring finger for a moment, and then there was a flash of teeth.

“He would’ve said,” Hermione said in the uncomfortable silence. “Right?”

“No,” Harry said in a small voice, “he wouldn’t have.”

* * *

Hermione had several ways to keep busy, some more productive than others. Currently she was seated on the floor in front of the coffee table, a set of notebooks opened in front of her and a steaming mug of tea in her hands. She carefully set it on top of the page she’d just written on.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked bewildered, taking a seat behind her.

Hermione pursed her lips, looking harassed, leaning back against his shins. “I noticed a few pages had tea stains and I really don’t have the time to start over.” She was making all the other pages match.

“Gotcha,” Harry muttered around his glass of pumpkin juice. “Do they all need stains?”

She shrugged. “No, but they need to look _used_.” She held it up and leafed through the book to demonstrate. “Hear that? They all need to be like that,” she said decisively. “I like the sound.” She frowned down at it. “This one doesn’t look right either.” She carefully crinkled it, obviously trying not to tear it as she did so, then let it go and leafed through the book again. “Better.”

Harry shared a look with Ron, who pretended to be paying more attention to his snacks than whatever their mutual friend was up to, as if Hermione didn’t know. “Is that one for class?”

“No!” she instantly replied, eyes wide at the very _thought_.

Ron snorted but kept quiet.

* * *

####  **PART FOUR**

* * *

#####  **11**.

Kissing the boy felt as right as it was wrong, although it was hard to remember why he shouldn’t be doing this. If asked, he’d say he had no choice, not with the way the boy looked as he asked about a family; sad, expectant, disappointed and trying not to be. What else could he have done but reward that foolish bravery with a kiss?

Harry didn’t know how to hold himself, how to hold him, everything about him clumsy but very clearly learning as he was going along. From one minute to the next, his pawing motions changed into a more sure grip on Marvolo’s biceps until he finally relaxed into the lazy movement of their lips.

When Marvolo broke the kiss and leaned back, licking his lips. Harry was smiling once more, looking thoroughly distracted. Yes, he thought to himself, the boy tasted as delicious as he looked, so very different from the salty kisses Marvolo shared with Sirius. Perhaps it was cruel to go in for a taste, _to be the first_ and leave it at that, but he’d gotten what he’d wanted.

His curiosity was sated.

* * *

The two House Elves, Kreacher and Dobby, the latter a _gift_ from Sirius’ cousin upon his release, had truly outdone themselves this Christmas, or so Sirius claimed. Marvolo believed differently, as this was their job; of course they were going to deliver good work, they _had_ to.

“Were you expecting otherwise?” Marvolo asked, entertained.

“No,” Sirius said slowly, “just appreciating them.”

Marvolo didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. He rotated his empty glass between his fingers, contemplating whether he should open a new bottle of his regular bordeaux or drink whatever expensive wine the elves said was supposed to compliment the venison course. In the end he chose the bordeaux, leaving the other bottle for Sirius, who didn’t seem to mind the taste.

“Can I try?” Harry asked.

“No,” was Sirius’ immediate answer, and Dumbledore nodded with approval, but of course then he had to ruin it by continuing, “because then I have to offer your friends as well, wouldn’t want to be rude, and I’m sure their parents wouldn’t approve.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said solemnly.

The little mudblood derailed their upcoming conversation about their morals or their lack thereof, however, by shoving a spoon in Sirius’ face, to the consternation of the Weasley boy. “Here,” she said, holding out the utensil.

Sirius glanced down, then slowly reached out to push her hand back. “I don’t need one?”

Marvolo spotted Harry giving him a _look_ , but his godfather must not have noticed.

“Everyone has a spoon but you, so you need one,” Hermione said pointedly, holding it out once more, biting her lip anxiously when Sirius still wouldn’t take it.

“But we’re not eating anything that requires a—”

“Sirius, for fuck’s sake,” Harry huffed and he leaned over, grabbing the spoon from Granger. He put it down where he figured she’d want it, meaning the same spot everyone else had theirs.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said brightly. Her cheeks were a little red with what was probably embarrassment, but she didn’t look so agitated anymore.

Marvolo lost the battle and reached across the table to adjust it, so that it aligned perfectly.

“Oh, bloody hell, there's two now,” Weasley groaned.

Harry grinned, looking utterly unbothered by that. Good, he should be well versed in Marvolo’s ways after five years. If this had surprised him, Marvolo would’ve been disappointed. From Harry’s tales, Granger was worse off than him, and Marvolo didn’t mind giving her that particular win. He would’ve asked how she dealt with the lack of matching utensils—they owned only three different tablespoons, for example, and Harry and Dumbledore had their two dessert spoons, so Granger had given Sirius a teaspoon—but he didn’t really care enough to know.

“We're going to need rules,” Weasley continued, pointing his fork first at Granger, then at Marvolo and then back at Granger, “because you're going to drive me up the wall, and then we're going to have _problems_.”

“Don't point your fork at people, Ronald, it's rude,” Marvolo said with a sly grin.

Harry _giggled_.

“Rule number one,” Weasley said loudly, because Sirius was laughing as well, “you get one correction per person, per day.”

“What? No!” Granger looked outraged. “What if it's a horrible mistake?”

Weasley glared. “A horrible mistake is, oops if I don't say something, they're going to set the house on fire. A horrible mistake is _not_ , oops, they spelled coffee wrong, I'd better go tell them.”

Marvolo choked. “How do you—”

“Not the point!” Weasley said quickly. “One correction per person per day unless it's to prevent someone or something from harm.”

“Great idea, we just need to threaten bodily harm, et voila,” Marvolo said smugly. He turned to Harry. “From now on, whenever you don't clean up the goddamn towels, I _will_ curse you.” He turned back to Weasley, as if to say ' _there_ '.

Harry and Sirius rolled their eyes for different reasons. “This again,” Sirius muttered, while Harry hissed, “ _I did this morning_!”

Marvolo didn’t bother pointing out that doing it once every few days didn’t cut it—they’d been there before, and it always led to Harry bettering himself for exactly five days before he reverted to _not doing what he said he would do_ and it would be up to Marvolo or Sirius to clean up after him.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Dumbledore cut in, eyes doing their twinkling thing that meant he was smart enough to remember Marvolo couldn’t curse anyone if he tried, the infernal wristbands preventing his magic from gathering in one spot long enough to do simple spells.

* * *

Marvolo never made the Gaunt ring a Horcrux. In fact, the last time he’d seen it was around someone else’s finger, a promise sealed away and lowered into the ground on a wet Autumn day. Seeing it hanging from a chain around Sirius’ neck brought back memories he’d rather forget, but then, he was full of those nowadays. Considering he would never be going home, he could deal with a few more.

* * *

#####  **12**.

Of course their peace never lasted very long—it lasted just long enough for the good moments to be worth it, but trauma waited for nothing, not even for Christmas to fully pass.

* * *

Harry woke up in the middle of the night but couldn’t pinpoint why until he heard loud swearing coming from the hallway. Within seconds he was on his feet, but knew better to approach. Instead, he watched from the door opening as Marvolo paced in the hallway before finally going down the stairs, proving Sirius correct in his choice of bedroom.

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, as Sirius was still up.

Harry waited until it was mostly silent before he too went downstairs, but his sneaking wasn't very sneaky as the hardwood floors came in contact with his slightly sweaty feet. At least they weren’t as bad as Ron’s, who took a special potion bimonthly to deal with it. This meant Sirius and Marvolo heard him before they saw him.

“Harry,” Sirius slurred tiredly, “you should be sleeping, go back to bed.”

He didn’t say he had been, instead he watched them silently, trying to figure out what limb belonged to whom. It was still an odd sight. Apparently they had the same calming techniques, and touch was one of them, and so they’d often spend the night on the couch lazily wrapped around each other. Harry was only allowed to stay once they realized he wasn’t going to mention it come morning.

“Is fine,” he responded, coming closer. “Stay?”

“Woof,” Sirius said with a roll of his eyes.

“You’re not funny, Black,” came Marvolo’s equally tired voice from _somewhere_.

“As long as _I_ think I’m funny.”

Harry left them to it and went into the kitchen to put a kettle on the stove. White chocolate blueberry loose leaf tea for Sirius and Earl Grey in a tea bag for Marvolo, because, well, Harry didn’t know why. Living with Sirius meant he’d gotten used to loose leaf tea, but Marvolo had managed to resist for what was almost a year now. Tomorrow, in fact, on Boxing Day. Or would that be today? Was it past midnight?

“—honor, like they had any,” Marvolo was saying bitterly when Harry re-entered the living room with his tray of tea and biscuits.

Sirius accepted his cup with a hum. “Parkinson used to come by my cell to laugh.”

“Which one was that?”

“With the yellow scarf.”

Marvolo made a sudden retching sound, and for a second, Harry thought it was meant as a joke, but then Sirius stumbled to his feet with a shriek. “Oh, him,” Marvolo said faintly, breathing a tad too fast.

Sirius banished the expelled contents of Marvolo’s stomach from the couch with a shaky wave of his wand, which to Harry was a reminder of the man’s own time within the prison. “Need a bucket?”

“I don’t _think_ so.” Marvolo scratched his wrists, trying to get underneath the bands but it was no use.

Sirius sat back down, and neither he nor Harry asked about the reaction, there was no need. Between the three of them, pretending only a minute had passed since his initial reaction was easy, and once more Harry wondered what it was like to lose time like that, to lose yourself in memories that way. He didn’t want to find out, but then, neither had Sirius and Marvolo, had they? 

It was precisely that reason why Harry never brought up the wish to understand. He wanted to know what the phantom pain of invisible scars felt like; scars that hurt so much that you felt forced to sequester yourself, to go into hiding in a small village where nobody knew you, just so you didn’t have to remind people of who you used to be.

Just so they couldn’t remind you of who you _should_ be.

* * *

#####  **1**.

When Harry was ten, Hagrid came to pick him up from the Dursleys. A year early, he’d been told, because there was new information, not that they told a ten year old what information that was, but it all boiled down to the same thing for Harry—no more Dursleys. 

And that was _before_ they figured out his native language was parseltongue.

Naturally, all the people he met were horrified that he grew up speaking a snake’s language rather than English. Maybe if it had been any other language, it would've been okay for some reason, but it seemed nobody liked the hissing sounds. Harry thought they were beautiful, but he'd always been careful not to voice that thought.

At least nobody voiced their obvious displeasure of Snake’s presence. 

There were a few weeks of information overload. He learned about his parents, about Wixen customs and norms and values and how to use a quill instead of a fountain pen and the history of their kind. Then one evening, Professor Dumbledore told him about Lord Voldemort. He said the man was dead, never coming back, and upon seeing his expression, Harry asked, “Is good, yes?”

Dumbledore looked troubled. “It is,” he said slowly. He stared at Harry, and the boy fidgeted in his seat at the intensity of it. “But you see, Harry...” He paused, as if uncertain whether he wanted to divulge it or not.

For a split second, Harry thought maybe he was pretending, the way some adults did when they wanted children to feel special for knowing something they weren't supposed to, the way Vernon's friend used to tell Dudley secrets that he wasn't allowed to tell Petunia and Vernon about. Vernon's friend hadn't cared that Harry overheard, or maybe he'd just overlooked him. Dudley thought he was _cool_. Harry, on the other hand, hated him because he was really mean whenever he _did_ notice Harry, so he told Petunia out of spite. It was the only reason they let him keep Snake when they found him.

“When he was young, he made a very big mistake,” Dumbledore continued with a grave voice. “His soul was broken, and I thought I found a way to help him, so I tried to mend it.”

Harry cocked his head, then grabbed his little notepad and scribbled, “Why? Didn't he kill lots of people?”

Professor Dumbledore read it and nodded. “Yes, he did.”

“Did it work?” Harry wrote next, then instantly crossed it out. Of course it didn't work, because wouldn't the headmaster look happy about it? “What happened?” he wrote.

“Some magics are best left alone,” the old man said.

Harry wrinkled his nose. That wasn't much of an answer.

“I foolishly destroyed a man's life.”

“Confusing,” Harry told him, trying and failing to keep the annoyance out of his voice, not bothering with the notepad. “Just say.”

“My apologies, dear child.”

Harry suddenly had the impression that Dumbledore wasn’t just trying to tell Harry what he'd done, he was trying to _confess_. Interesting. It was only then that he recognized the heavy look on Dumbledore's face as guilt. It wasn't like Harry could offer him salvation or anything, he was rather the wrong person for that, and there was no way that Dumbledore didn't know that if a ten year old knew.

“I didn't mend his soul, Harry, I merely summoned another one whose soul wasn't quite as torn yet,” Dumbledore finally said. “Our Lord Voldemort no longer exists.”

“Was point, yes?” Harry asked unnecessarily, understanding dawning on him.

“Indeed it was.”

“Now different Voldemort,” Harry guessed.

“Not the monster but the man,” Dumbledore said.

Harry cocked his head. “Is innocent?”

The headmaster smiled sadly. “Not quite, my boy, but he is undoubtedly undeserving of his current punishment.”

Oh. “Punish for other person,” Harry murmured as he thought about it, his grammar taking a turn for the worse as he got distracted. He couldn't imagine what it was like to suddenly be somewhere else entirely and get punished for something another version of Harry had done. He thought the closest he'd ever come to that was getting grounded for two weeks because Dudley had eaten all of Petunia's chocolate.

Maybe it was a little like waking up from a dream and realizing you'd killed people in your sleep, people you probably had thought of killing but didn't because it was bad or because you didn't want to go to prison. But because you'd _thought_ about it, people would assume you were guilty.

Harry shuddered.

* * *

#####  **13**.

The Malfoy boy visited him in Azkaban, once.

Neither of them spoke until the very end, a copy of the Daily Prophet opened between them.

Marvolo said, “You look like your father.”

Lucius smirked and tapped the newspaper and said, “You look like yours.”

_~fin._

**Author's Note:**

> I've not posted anything in 8 years so I'm doing this anonymously because I'm a terrified mess lol.  
> Please be kind <3 Thanks for reading!
> 
> Edit August 10, 2020: decided to go ahead and un-anon this. Got rid of my older fics so now I don't feel bad about it anymore :)


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